Different from fables and parables, teaching stories have meaning at many levels, and have been used as a tool for spiritual instruction in many wisdom traditions. Now they are also finding use in psychotherapy and education
A prince goes to a Zen master and tells him that he wants to be enlightened—and now! Instead of sending him away, the master says it could be arranged. After finding out from the prince that he plays chess very well, the master sets up a game between the visitor and one of his monks who has just a passing knowledge of chess. The condition is: whoever loses will be beheaded. Predictably, the prince starts dominating the game. Soon, however, his conscience starts to prick: “I had come to this monastery for a selfish purpose, but now I may become the cause of this poor monk’s death.” So, feeling compassionate, he deliberately starts playing badly. But playing well was second nature to him, playing badly needs his entire attention. Neither does he want to play too bad a game to make his real move obvious. His nerves stretched, soon he starts sweating profusely. After some time, the master stops the game. “The first lesson is over,” he tells the prince. “You learnt two things today: compassion and concentration. Now go and hug your chess opponent who made it possible.”
Two travelling monks reached a river where they met a young woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up on to his shoulders and carried her across the water to the other bank. She thanked him and departed. As the monks continued on their way, one was brooding and preoccupied. Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out: “Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!” “Brother,” the second monk replied. “I set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her.”
Duke Mu of Chin said to Po Lo: “You are now advanced in years. Is there any member of your family whom I could employ to look for the horses in your stead?” Po Lo replied: “A good horse can be picked out by its general build and appearance. But the superlative horse—one that raises no dust and leaves no tracks—is something evanescent and fleeting, elusive as thin air. My sons can tell a good horse when they see one, but they cannot tell a superlative horse. I have a friend, however, Chiu-fang Kao, a hawker, who in things appertaining to horses is nowise my inferior. Pray see him.” Duke Mu did so, and subsequently dispatched him on the quest for a steed. Three months later, Kao returned with the news that he had found one. “What kind of a horse is it?” asked the Duke. “Oh, it is a dun coloured mare,” was the reply. However, the animal turned out to be a coal-black stallion! Much displeased, the Duke sent for Po Lo. “That friend of yours cannot even distinguish a beast’s colour or sex! What on earth can he know about horses?” Po Lo heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “Has he really got as far as that?” he cried. “Ah, then he is worth ten thousand of me put together. What Kao keeps in view is the spiritual mechanism. In making sure of the essential, he forgets the homely details. So clever a judge of horses is Kao, that he has it in him to judge something better than horses.” When the horse arrived, it turned out indeed to be a superlative animal.
An Indian Brahmin was interested in gaining supernatural powers. Learning that a monk in Tibet could grant him his wishes, he undertook an arduous journey through the Himalayas to meet him. The monk told the Brahmin: ‘‘The mantra to gain supernatural powers is simple. Just say Buddham Sharanam Gachchami, Dhammam Sharanam Gachchami, Sangham Sharanam Gachchami three times, but don’t think of monkeys.’’ Content, the Brahmin thought: ‘‘I am such a learned man. Why should I think of monkeys when I chant the mantra?’’ But when he sat down to chant the mantra, the first thought that came to his mind was that of monkeys. Later, all he could think of was monkeys. The monkeys roamed all over his consciousness until he lost his peace of mind. Seeing his condition, the monk smiled: ‘‘If you force your mind to travel in a certain direction, it will go the other way.’’
In ancient times itinerant Zen monks when arriving at a monastery could challenge the monks to a theological contest and would be given food and shelter if they won but would have to move on if they lost. There was a monastery occupied by two brothers, one was wise and the other foolish. The foolish monk had but one eye. One night it was raining cats and dogs and an itinerant monk knocked on the door. The wise brother wishing to be kind to the drenched fellow suggested he has a contest with his brother. Within minutes the contest was over. The travelling monk entered the room, bowed and admitted defeat. The wise brother asked: “Tell me what happened?” The other replied: “Your brother is a genius. We decided to debate in silence. I went first and showed a single finger signifying the Buddha. Your brother showed two fingers, meaning the Buddha and his teachings. I replied with three fingers, indicating the Buddha, dharma and the sangha. Your brother replied with coup de gras when he showed me his fist proving that in reality the Buddha, the dharma and the sangha are all one.” The poor monk left in the stormy night. Just then the brother stormed in, angry. “That man was so rude.” “What happened?” The one-eyed brother replied: “We decided to have a silent debate and the first thing he did was to put a single finger up meaning, ‘I see you have only one eye.’ So I put up two fingers out of courtesy to him, meaning, ‘I see you have two eyes.’ But the guy was so rude, he put up three fingers telling me that together the two of us have three eyes. I got so mad, I shook my fist at him, telling him, ‘If you don’t stop talking about eyes, I’m going to punch your lights out.”
As the old man walked the beach at dawn, he noticed a youth ahead of him picking up starfish and flinging them into the sea. Catching up with the young boy, he asked him why he was doing this. The answer was that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. “But the beach goes on for miles and there are thousands of starfish,” countered the old man. “How can your effort make any difference.” The young boy looked at the starfish in his hand and then threw it to the safety of the waves. “It makes a difference to this one,” he said.
There was an American professor who had made a lifetime’s study of the Japanese tea ceremony. He was the western expert. He heard there was an old man living in Japan who was a master of the tea ceremony. So he made a special trip to Japan to see him. He found the master living in a small house on the outskirts of Tokyo and they sat down to have tea together. The professor immediately started talking about the tea ceremony, his study, all he knew about it and how he was looking forward to sharing his learning with the old man. The old man said nothing, but started to pour tea into the professor’s cup. While the professor talked, the old man continued to pour the tea, the cup filled and the old man kept pouring. The tea split down the sides of the cup in a stream onto the floor, yet the old man did not stop. “Stop!” said the professor. “You are crazy. You can’t fit any more tea in that cup. It’s full.” “I was just practising,” replied the old man, “for the task of attempting to pass learning to a mind that is already full.”
Venkatesh Iyer, university don, was worried. His teenage daughter Madhavi was forever tuned in to the pop cacophony the music market was spewing forth with amazing consistency. Instead of raga Shankara or Darbari, the house was resounding with Macarena, Saturday Night and the like. “I must do something,” decided Iyer and drove off to Madhavi’s school one day. “You are absolutely right,” agreed Madhavi’s class teacher, “these pop and rap numbers can hardly be called music. We must save our children from this cultural degeneration.” So off they went to the school principal. “My daughter has no taste in music. What kind of values are you teaching at school?” demanded Iyer of the principal. “You are right, sir. We must teach our students what music really is. They shouldn’t be listening to this frivolous trash. From now on we shall make classical music compulsory for all our students,” promised the principal. Iyer was a happy man. His daughter and hundreds of children like her would now develop a refined taste and reject the junk being sold to them in the name of pop music. He was really very happy. He drove back home humming: ‘Hey Macarena’.
A dervish was walking along a river bank. He was deep in thought, deliberating upon theological issues. Suddenly he heard a shout, someone was repeating the dervish call. “There is no point in that,” he said to himself, “because the man is mispronouncing the syllables. Instead of YA HU, he is saying U YA HU.” But then he thought it was his duty to correct this person and make him understand the idea behind the sound. So he hired a boat, and set off to the island in the river, from where the sound emanated. There he found a man dressed in a dervish robe, repeating the sacred phrase. “My friend,” said the first dervish: “You are mispronouncing the phrase. This is the way in which you speak it.” And he told him. The other dervish thanked him profusely. Happy, the first dervish set off for the mainland. After all, it was said, one who could repeat the sacred formula correctly could even walk on water. But then he heard another U YA HU emerge from the island, and regretted people’s inability to improve. It was followed by a strange sight. From the island, the other dervish was coming towards him, briskly walking on the surface of water. Said he: “Brother, I am sorry to bother you, but I have come out again to ask you the standard method of making the repetition because it is difficult to remember.”
There was this town in the heart of which thrived a red light area. One day the indignant municipal councillors decided to relocate the prostitutes on the outskirts to minimise their corrupting influence on the populace. After the harlots and the pimps settled in the new, forlorn location, they hardly entertained any clients for weeks. But then, a few regular clients returned, and in time the trickle became a respectable flow. Taking a cue, the flower vendors, the paanwallas and those selling soda water and snacks in the old red light area, too, shifted their area of operation. Then some hair saloons, restaurants and grocery shops came up. Many shopkeepers even chose to live in the area. To serve the swelling population of the new locality, bigger businesses came up. The red light area was, indeed, in the heart of the new township.
Once, during the course of his travels, Guru Nanak arrived at a village where the people were a quarrelsome lot. He blessed them and asked them to prosper and live in that village forever. In the next village, where the people were peace-loving, Guru Nanak blessed them too but asked them to abandon the village and disperse. Mardana, his close disciple, puzzled by the guru’s strange blessings, asked him why he blessed the first village with prosperity though its people were unworthy |of it and asked the good people of the second village to disperse. Guru Nanak smiled and answered: “The quarrelsome will only spread unrest and friction wherever they go. So I asked them to remain where they were. But it is better for the peace-loving to disperse and take their good qualities with them so that all those who know them can learn the art of peaceful coexistence.”
Many years ago a wise peasant lived in China. He had a son who was the gleam in his eyes and a white stallion which was his favourite belonging. One day his horse escaped from his grounds and disappeared. The villagers came to him one by one and said: “You are such an unlucky man. It is so bad about the horse.” The peasant responded: “Who knows. Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good.” The next day the stallion returned followed by 12 wild horses. The neighbours visited him again and congratulated him for his luck. He just said: “Who knows. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.” As it happens, the next day his son was attempting to break in one of the wild horses when he fell down and broke his leg. Once more everyone came with their condolences: “It’s terrible.” Again he replied: “Who knows. Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good.” A few days passed and his poor son was limping around the village with his broken leg, when the emperor’s army entered the village announcing that a war was starting and they conscripted all the young men of the village. However, they left the peasant’s son since he had a broken leg. Once more, everyone was so jealous of the peasant. They talked about his sheer luck. He just muttered: “Who knows. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.”
How wonderful it is to have two women,” a man raved to one of his friends in a cafe. He waxed eloquent at the wondrous variety, the magnificence of experiencing two blossoms that smell so different. The friend’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. It sounds like paradise, he thought to himself. Why shouldn’t I also taste the honey of two women as my friend here probably does? Soon after he married a second woman. When he tried to get into bed with her on their wedding night, she rejected him. ‘Let me sleep,” she snapped, “Go to your first wife. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. Either her or me.” Desolate, he went to his first wife. But when he tried to slip into bed next to her, she complained: “Not with me… If you have married another woman and I’m not good enough for you, just go back to her…” He had to leave his own house and go to the nearby mosque to sleep there. When he tried to sleep in the praying position, he heard someone clearing his throat behind him. Astonished, he turned around. The other man was none other than his friend who had raved about the virtue of having two wives. “Why have you come here?” he asked him. “My wives wouldn’t let me get near them. That’s been going on for several weeks.” “But why did you tell me how great it is to live with two women?” Ashamed, the friend answered: “1 felt so lonesome in this mosque and wanted to have a friend with me.”
What do you wish from me?” the master asked. “I wish to be your student and become the finest karateka in the land,” the boy replied. “How long must I study?’ “Ten years at least,” the master indicated. “Ten years is a long time,” said the boy. “What if I studied twice as hard as your other students?” “Twenty years,” replied the master. “Twenty years! What if I practised day and night with all my effort?” “Thirty years in that case,” was the master’s reply. “How is it that each time I say I will work harder, you tell me that it will take longer?” the boy asked. “The answer is clear. A pupil in such a hurry learns slowly.” Box 1 on page no. 57 One day Mulla Nasruddin went to his neighbour and asked to borrow his huge pot. The neighbor reluctantly loaned him the pot indicating a lack of trust. Next day Mulla returned the pot with a small pot saying: “Your pot was pregnant, had labour and here’s the baby. It belongs to you.” The neighbour thought this was odd but accepted the gift believing that one should not look into the mouth of a gift horse. A week went by and once again Mulla borrowed the pot and returned it the next day with a small pot as the new-born child. Next week when the Mulla asked to borrow the pot the neighbour was only too pleased to comply. Two days went by and the Mulla did not return the pot and the neighbour became worried. On the third day he went to the Mulla demanding the return of his pot. Mulla told him: “Alas, my friend, that’s impossible. Your pot passed away in labour.” The neighbour was maddened and screamed: “Look, you idiot. We all know pots do not die in labour.” “My friend,” the Mullah replied calmly, “we have already established that pots become pregnant, have labour and you even have two of the babies. I cannot help it if you were unlucky that your pot could not survive three labours in such a short time. You should have looked after it better.” Box 2 on page no. 57 An American man goes to a doctor. “Doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t seem to stop worrying, I’m anxious, I can’t sleep. I think I’m getting an ulcer…” The doctor nods. “You do look exhausted. What’s the matter?” Patient answers: “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Doctor says: “Then, tell me something about your life.” The man brightens up: “Oh, everything is great. We have the best life. We live in our own three bedroom, two-bath home in a nice neighborhood, drive two new cars, have closets full of good clothes, our three kids go to private schools, we eat out a couple of nights a week, have a condo in the mountains for skiing, we had a great vacation last year in the Bahamas and we’re planning to go to Hawaii in two months.” The doctor smiles. “My, that sounds wonderful! You have a wonderful life.” “Oh, we do, we do,” the man says. “Then what’s your problem?” The man shakes his head. “Well, I’m not exactly sure. I think it might be that our income is only $460 a week.”
Prince Hui’s cook was cutting up a goat. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every knock of the chopper, was in perfect harmony. “What skill!” the Prince exclaimed. “Sir,” replied the cook, “I’ve devoted myself to Tao. It is better than skill. When I first began to cut up goats, I saw before me whole animals. After three years of practice, I no more saw them as whole. “Now I work with my mind, not with the eye. I follow openings or cavities according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not try to cut through joints; still less through large bones. “A good cook changes his chopper once a year—because he cuts. An ordinary cook, once a month—because he hacks. But I’ve had this chopper for 19 years now. For at the joints there are always interstices, where I insert the edge of the chopper which is without thickness. By doing this the gap is enlarged, and the blade finds plenty of room.” “Bravo,” said the Prince. “From the words of this cook I have learnt how to take care of my life.”
There was a man who wanted to know about the mind, what it really was and whether computers would ever be as intelligent as humans. The man typed the following question into the most powerful contemporary computer (which took a whole floor of a university department): “Do you compute that you will ever think like a human being?”
The machine rumbled and muttered as it started to analyse its own computational habits. Eventually the machine printed its reply on a piece of paper. The man rushed over in excitement and found these words, neatly typed: “That reminds me of a story…”
Now, the above is a teaching story as well as a meta-story about the nature and importance of teaching stories. It makes you pause and think, indeed to ponder over it for a long time to get the message. Maybe you infer that the computer’s answer, as in many real life dilemmas and situations, cannot be a straight yes or no. At the same time, it teaches you that a story well-told can overcome the yes/no, black/white limitation and communicate the answer or solution in a roundabout way, but it always needs active participation of the reader or listener. The insight thus gained, the truth thus gleaned, is likely to stay with you for a long time. In one fell swoop, this story about the mega-computer also contemporises teaching stories, generally associated with oral traditions of the East.
Once you look you will find teaching stories in most wisdom traditions, including Sufism, Taoism, Zen Buddhism, Hasidic Judaism, the life of Jesus as manifest in the Gospels, and the stories of the desert fathers of early Christianity. Teaching stories are formally used as a tool for spiritual instruction in Sufism. Which means their influence is spread all over Middle East and Central Asia. But they have a particularly long tradition in Afghanistan. Zen stories of more recent vintage are equally powerful. In India, spiritual teachers and swamis always make it a point to include stories in their talks and discourses. Lately motivational speakers and New Age workshop leaders are employing them—because they too are aiming at transforming lives. What is pleasantly surprising, however, is to see more and more psychotherapists including teaching stories in counselling and therapy, and increasing awareness about their function in learning thinking skills and life skills.
Among the people responsible for the popularity of teaching stories in our times are Idries Shah, Robert Ornstein, D.T. Suzuki and Paul Reps. In his authentic books on Sufism, Shah related many teaching stories and went into their use in this mystic tradition. He also published a series of books on Mulla Nasruddin, making the loveable jester a household name. Ornstein looked at the psychological dimension of the teaching story, introducing this literary genre to the academia. Suzuki not only introduced Zen Buddhism to the world but also peppered his books with Zen stories. Reps published a popular collection of short Zen stories in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones.
What is a teaching story
Let us first understand what teaching stories are or are not. They are not fables or parables. A fable is a short tale which stars animal characters and carries a moral for the readers—Aesop’s Fables and Panchatantra are prime examples. Parables (there are many in the Bible like that of the Prodigal Son) usually aim to indoctrinate and are open to a simple interpretation. But teaching stories, says famous novelist Doris Lessing, are not didactic. “Their effects on the innermost part of the human mind is direct and certain.” She acknowledges that teaching stories helped her to get a realistic view of her talents.
Neither are teaching stories written only to amuse as folk tales or fairy tales. Rather, they are carefully designed to show effective ways of defining and responding to common life experiences. A story is an especially good means for this kind of communication because it works its way into consciousness in a way that direct instruction cannot do. Such stories are meant to be told and retold, visited and revisited, meditated upon, as they themselves may change shape, revealing themselves variously in different circumstances and at different stages of human development. The very fact of their repetition may reveal layers or slants of meaning that would remain hidden otherwise.
Since teaching stories have been etched in my memory more than any other kind of stories, these are the ones I tell to my 5-year-old son at bedtime. Far from getting bored, he listens intently, comes out with his own simple moral or message after the story is finished, and often laughs heartily, as at the Mulla story of the pregnant pot.
In contemporary India, spiritual gurus and swamis use teaching stories profusely and effectively in their talks and discourses. Ramakrishna Paramhansa is known for telling pithy tales. Osho had people in his staff whose duty it was to scour world literature to keep him supplied with stories, anecdotes and jokes.
At first sight, you may think that gurus tell stories to give welcome relief to the audience from the more serious and weighty topics of God, Self, and Enlightenment, no different from a marketing manager peppering his presentation with a few jokes and anecdotes. But the fact of the matter is that the masters use the stories consciously. They are also not oblivious to the fact that their exhortations for a pure life and one-pointed devotion to God hardly register, or are forgotten on the drive back from the lecture hall. It is the stories that stick in the mind, get into the deep recesses of the psyche and do their work of transformation silently.
Jaya Rao, Vedanta teacher, says: “The story helps the student to remember a principle. He may forget the principle but he will remember the story and through it, return to the principle.” Another reason, she says, teachers use stories is to draw the attention of those who may not be intellectually inclined, say for instance, children. To them the story is entertainment, but its deeper meaning will reveal itself to them at some point.
Jaya Rao acknowledges that she uses a lot of stories in her teachings, some taken from the scriptures and some from contemporary life. “Take the story about Krishna dancing on the head of Kalia Nag and overcoming him, at which point the wives of Kalia pay him homage,” she says. “This story has a deep meaning. The lake that Kalia poisoned stands for the mind and he himself for desires (which poison the mind). However, once we overcome desires, signified by Krishna dancing on Kalia, the objects of desire will come to us, signified by the wives.”
Swami Kriyananda (J. Donald Walters), disciple of Paramahansa Yogananda, says: “Stories capture the imagination, and are bound to be remembered for a long time. They also make the point more clearly than abstractions. Besides, usually they are funny.”
Indeed, the element of humour ensures the longevity of the stories, and precipitates deeper understanding and insight. Ludwig Wittgenstein, a 20th century philosopher, had once said that he could teach a philosophy class by telling jokes. According to Idries Shah: “The blow administered by the joke makes possible a transitory condition in which other things can be perceived.” Plato pointed out long time ago: “Serious things cannot be understood without laughable things.” However, if you stop at the humour level only, the deeper meaning may be missed altogether. If you don’t laugh, you’ve missed the point. If you only laugh, you’ve missed your chance for illumination.
Rumi will have the final word about he role and nature of teaching stories in a poem:
STORY WATER
A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. It lets them meet,
and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down
in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.
A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread
to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking
in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that’s blazing
inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what’s hidden.
Study them,
and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.
How to read a story
This is a simple Mulla story on the face of it, but read it and then let Robert Ornstein lead you on:
A man was walking home late one night when he saw Mulla Nasruddin searching under a street light on hands and knees for something on the ground.
“Mulla, what have you lost?” he asked.
“The key to my house,” Nasruddin said.
“I’ll help you look,” the man said.
Soon, both men were down on their knees, looking for the key.
After some time, the man asked: “Where exactly did you drop it?”
Nasruddin waved his arm back toward the darkness. “Over there, in my house.”
The man jumped up. “Then why are you looking for it here?”
“Because there is more light here than inside my house.”
In The Psychology of Consciousness, Ornstein suggests you to ask the following questions:
What are you looking for?
Where are you looking for it?
Are you looking in a place where there’s a lot of light?
Contemplate this question: What is your key? What ideas come up?
Say: “I have lost my key.” How does that question make you feel? What does it mean to you? Where does it take you?
Then say: “My key is in my own house.” Where does that take you and how does it make you feel?
In spiritual and personal growth
The Mulla was a judge and arbitrator in a dispute. First the plaintiff’s advocate gave an eloquent discourse advancing his claims. The Mulla who had been listening intently agreed and said: “That’s right.” Next, it was the defendant’s turn and he was just as erudite. Once more Mulla nodded and said: “That’s right.” Witness to the Mulla’s lack of discrimination, the court clerk ventured: “They can’t both be right.” The Mullah agreed with him too, saying: “That’s right!”
Here we are able to see the paradox clearly. In our conditioning, we see things as either right or wrong, black or white. Linear thinking does not allow us to think laterally or holistically. Our minds wrestle in the dark dens of logic and lose the gist of life.
Mulla the judge has a witness in quantum physics which knows of a realm where particles behave as waves and vice versa. Can we not continue with this line of thinking and venture that maybe theists and atheists are both right, maybe those who believe in a personal God and those believing in an impersonal God are also equally right. A lot of sectarian disputes and ill-will can be put to rest thus.
Mulla’s persona itself seems able to teach something. It is doubtful that he was a historical person, but some accounts place him somewhere in the Middle East in the 13th century. A wise fool, he is a malleable character, fits in any locale, era or lends himself well for any set of personal traits and circumstances you give him. He can be rich, poor, ordained master, smuggler and cheat, and so on.
As for understanding and interpreting Zen stories, it will be good to look at the basic premise of Zen Buddhism:
A special transmission outside the scriptures,
No dependence upon words
Direct pointing to the soul of man
Seeing into one’s nature and attaining Buddhahood.
Naturally then, many Zen stories debunk rituals and rote knowledge, teach the value of here and now, with the teacher often employing some direct method of awakening.
Among Zen&rsqu
To read more such articles on personal growth, inspirations and positivity, subscribe to our digital magazine at subscribe here
Life Positive follows a stringent review publishing mechanism. Every review received undergoes -
1. A mobile number and email ID verification check
2. Analysis by our seeker happiness team to double check for authenticity
3. Cross-checking, if required, by speaking to the seeker posting the review
Only after we're satisfied about the authenticity of a review is it allowed to go live on our website
Our award winning customer care team is available from 9 a.m to 9 p.m everyday
The Life Positive seal of trust implies:-
Standards guarantee:
All our healers and therapists undergo training and/or certification from authorized bodies before becoming professionals. They have a minimum professional experience of one year
Genuineness guarantee:
All our healers and therapists are genuinely passionate about doing service. They do their very best to help seekers (patients) live better lives.
Payment security:
All payments made to our healers are secure up to the point wherein if any session is paid for, it will be honoured dutifully and delivered promptly
Anonymity guarantee:
Every seekers (patients) details will always remain 100% confidential and will never be disclosed
A prince goes to a Zen master and tells him that he wants to be enlightened—and now! Instead of sending him away, the master says it could be arranged. After finding out from the prince that he plays chess very well, the master sets up a game between the visitor and one of his monks who has just a passing knowledge of chess. The condition is: whoever loses will be beheaded. Predictably, the prince starts dominating the game. Soon, however, his conscience starts to prick: “I had come to this monastery for a selfish purpose, but now I may become the cause of this poor monk’s death.” So, feeling compassionate, he deliberately starts playing badly. But playing well was second nature to him, playing badly needs his entire attention. Neither does he want to play too bad a game to make his real move obvious. His nerves stretched, soon he starts sweating profusely. After some time, the master stops the game. “The first lesson is over,” he tells the prince. “You learnt two things today: compassion and concentration. Now go and hug your chess opponent who made it possible.”
Two travelling monks reached a river where they met a young woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up on to his shoulders and carried her across the water to the other bank. She thanked him and departed. As the monks continued on their way, one was brooding and preoccupied. Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out: “Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!” “Brother,” the second monk replied. “I set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her.”
Duke Mu of Chin said to Po Lo: “You are now advanced in years. Is there any member of your family whom I could employ to look for the horses in your stead?” Po Lo replied: “A good horse can be picked out by its general build and appearance. But the superlative horse—one that raises no dust and leaves no tracks—is something evanescent and fleeting, elusive as thin air. My sons can tell a good horse when they see one, but they cannot tell a superlative horse. I have a friend, however, Chiu-fang Kao, a hawker, who in things appertaining to horses is nowise my inferior. Pray see him.” Duke Mu did so, and subsequently dispatched him on the quest for a steed. Three months later, Kao returned with the news that he had found one. “What kind of a horse is it?” asked the Duke. “Oh, it is a dun coloured mare,” was the reply. However, the animal turned out to be a coal-black stallion! Much displeased, the Duke sent for Po Lo. “That friend of yours cannot even distinguish a beast’s colour or sex! What on earth can he know about horses?” Po Lo heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “Has he really got as far as that?” he cried. “Ah, then he is worth ten thousand of me put together. What Kao keeps in view is the spiritual mechanism. In making sure of the essential, he forgets the homely details. So clever a judge of horses is Kao, that he has it in him to judge something better than horses.” When the horse arrived, it turned out indeed to be a superlative animal.
An Indian Brahmin was interested in gaining supernatural powers. Learning that a monk in Tibet could grant him his wishes, he undertook an arduous journey through the Himalayas to meet him. The monk told the Brahmin: ‘‘The mantra to gain supernatural powers is simple. Just say Buddham Sharanam Gachchami, Dhammam Sharanam Gachchami, Sangham Sharanam Gachchami three times, but don’t think of monkeys.’’ Content, the Brahmin thought: ‘‘I am such a learned man. Why should I think of monkeys when I chant the mantra?’’ But when he sat down to chant the mantra, the first thought that came to his mind was that of monkeys. Later, all he could think of was monkeys. The monkeys roamed all over his consciousness until he lost his peace of mind. Seeing his condition, the monk smiled: ‘‘If you force your mind to travel in a certain direction, it will go the other way.’’
In ancient times itinerant Zen monks when arriving at a monastery could challenge the monks to a theological contest and would be given food and shelter if they won but would have to move on if they lost. There was a monastery occupied by two brothers, one was wise and the other foolish. The foolish monk had but one eye. One night it was raining cats and dogs and an itinerant monk knocked on the door. The wise brother wishing to be kind to the drenched fellow suggested he has a contest with his brother. Within minutes the contest was over. The travelling monk entered the room, bowed and admitted defeat. The wise brother asked: “Tell me what happened?” The other replied: “Your brother is a genius. We decided to debate in silence. I went first and showed a single finger signifying the Buddha. Your brother showed two fingers, meaning the Buddha and his teachings. I replied with three fingers, indicating the Buddha, dharma and the sangha. Your brother replied with coup de gras when he showed me his fist proving that in reality the Buddha, the dharma and the sangha are all one.” The poor monk left in the stormy night. Just then the brother stormed in, angry. “That man was so rude.” “What happened?” The one-eyed brother replied: “We decided to have a silent debate and the first thing he did was to put a single finger up meaning, ‘I see you have only one eye.’ So I put up two fingers out of courtesy to him, meaning, ‘I see you have two eyes.’ But the guy was so rude, he put up three fingers telling me that together the two of us have three eyes. I got so mad, I shook my fist at him, telling him, ‘If you don’t stop talking about eyes, I’m going to punch your lights out.”
As the old man walked the beach at dawn, he noticed a youth ahead of him picking up starfish and flinging them into the sea. Catching up with the young boy, he asked him why he was doing this. The answer was that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. “But the beach goes on for miles and there are thousands of starfish,” countered the old man. “How can your effort make any difference.” The young boy looked at the starfish in his hand and then threw it to the safety of the waves. “It makes a difference to this one,” he said.
There was an American professor who had made a lifetime’s study of the Japanese tea ceremony. He was the western expert. He heard there was an old man living in Japan who was a master of the tea ceremony. So he made a special trip to Japan to see him. He found the master living in a small house on the outskirts of Tokyo and they sat down to have tea together. The professor immediately started talking about the tea ceremony, his study, all he knew about it and how he was looking forward to sharing his learning with the old man. The old man said nothing, but started to pour tea into the professor’s cup. While the professor talked, the old man continued to pour the tea, the cup filled and the old man kept pouring. The tea split down the sides of the cup in a stream onto the floor, yet the old man did not stop. “Stop!” said the professor. “You are crazy. You can’t fit any more tea in that cup. It’s full.” “I was just practising,” replied the old man, “for the task of attempting to pass learning to a mind that is already full.”
Venkatesh Iyer, university don, was worried. His teenage daughter Madhavi was forever tuned in to the pop cacophony the music market was spewing forth with amazing consistency. Instead of raga Shankara or Darbari, the house was resounding with Macarena, Saturday Night and the like. “I must do something,” decided Iyer and drove off to Madhavi’s school one day. “You are absolutely right,” agreed Madhavi’s class teacher, “these pop and rap numbers can hardly be called music. We must save our children from this cultural degeneration.” So off they went to the school principal. “My daughter has no taste in music. What kind of values are you teaching at school?” demanded Iyer of the principal. “You are right, sir. We must teach our students what music really is. They shouldn’t be listening to this frivolous trash. From now on we shall make classical music compulsory for all our students,” promised the principal. Iyer was a happy man. His daughter and hundreds of children like her would now develop a refined taste and reject the junk being sold to them in the name of pop music. He was really very happy. He drove back home humming: ‘Hey Macarena’.
A dervish was walking along a river bank. He was deep in thought, deliberating upon theological issues. Suddenly he heard a shout, someone was repeating the dervish call. “There is no point in that,” he said to himself, “because the man is mispronouncing the syllables. Instead of YA HU, he is saying U YA HU.” But then he thought it was his duty to correct this person and make him understand the idea behind the sound. So he hired a boat, and set off to the island in the river, from where the sound emanated. There he found a man dressed in a dervish robe, repeating the sacred phrase. “My friend,” said the first dervish: “You are mispronouncing the phrase. This is the way in which you speak it.” And he told him. The other dervish thanked him profusely. Happy, the first dervish set off for the mainland. After all, it was said, one who could repeat the sacred formula correctly could even walk on water. But then he heard another U YA HU emerge from the island, and regretted people’s inability to improve. It was followed by a strange sight. From the island, the other dervish was coming towards him, briskly walking on the surface of water. Said he: “Brother, I am sorry to bother you, but I have come out again to ask you the standard method of making the repetition because it is difficult to remember.”
There was this town in the heart of which thrived a red light area. One day the indignant municipal councillors decided to relocate the prostitutes on the outskirts to minimise their corrupting influence on the populace. After the harlots and the pimps settled in the new, forlorn location, they hardly entertained any clients for weeks. But then, a few regular clients returned, and in time the trickle became a respectable flow. Taking a cue, the flower vendors, the paanwallas and those selling soda water and snacks in the old red light area, too, shifted their area of operation. Then some hair saloons, restaurants and grocery shops came up. Many shopkeepers even chose to live in the area. To serve the swelling population of the new locality, bigger businesses came up. The red light area was, indeed, in the heart of the new township.
Once, during the course of his travels, Guru Nanak arrived at a village where the people were a quarrelsome lot. He blessed them and asked them to prosper and live in that village forever. In the next village, where the people were peace-loving, Guru Nanak blessed them too but asked them to abandon the village and disperse. Mardana, his close disciple, puzzled by the guru’s strange blessings, asked him why he blessed the first village with prosperity though its people were unworthy |of it and asked the good people of the second village to disperse. Guru Nanak smiled and answered: “The quarrelsome will only spread unrest and friction wherever they go. So I asked them to remain where they were. But it is better for the peace-loving to disperse and take their good qualities with them so that all those who know them can learn the art of peaceful coexistence.”
Many years ago a wise peasant lived in China. He had a son who was the gleam in his eyes and a white stallion which was his favourite belonging. One day his horse escaped from his grounds and disappeared. The villagers came to him one by one and said: “You are such an unlucky man. It is so bad about the horse.” The peasant responded: “Who knows. Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good.” The next day the stallion returned followed by 12 wild horses. The neighbours visited him again and congratulated him for his luck. He just said: “Who knows. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.” As it happens, the next day his son was attempting to break in one of the wild horses when he fell down and broke his leg. Once more everyone came with their condolences: “It’s terrible.” Again he replied: “Who knows. Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good.” A few days passed and his poor son was limping around the village with his broken leg, when the emperor’s army entered the village announcing that a war was starting and they conscripted all the young men of the village. However, they left the peasant’s son since he had a broken leg. Once more, everyone was so jealous of the peasant. They talked about his sheer luck. He just muttered: “Who knows. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.”
How wonderful it is to have two women,” a man raved to one of his friends in a cafe. He waxed eloquent at the wondrous variety, the magnificence of experiencing two blossoms that smell so different. The friend’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. It sounds like paradise, he thought to himself. Why shouldn’t I also taste the honey of two women as my friend here probably does? Soon after he married a second woman. When he tried to get into bed with her on their wedding night, she rejected him. ‘Let me sleep,” she snapped, “Go to your first wife. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. Either her or me.” Desolate, he went to his first wife. But when he tried to slip into bed next to her, she complained: “Not with me… If you have married another woman and I’m not good enough for you, just go back to her…” He had to leave his own house and go to the nearby mosque to sleep there. When he tried to sleep in the praying position, he heard someone clearing his throat behind him. Astonished, he turned around. The other man was none other than his friend who had raved about the virtue of having two wives. “Why have you come here?” he asked him. “My wives wouldn’t let me get near them. That’s been going on for several weeks.” “But why did you tell me how great it is to live with two women?” Ashamed, the friend answered: “1 felt so lonesome in this mosque and wanted to have a friend with me.”
What do you wish from me?” the master asked. “I wish to be your student and become the finest karateka in the land,” the boy replied. “How long must I study?’ “Ten years at least,” the master indicated. “Ten years is a long time,” said the boy. “What if I studied twice as hard as your other students?” “Twenty years,” replied the master. “Twenty years! What if I practised day and night with all my effort?” “Thirty years in that case,” was the master’s reply. “How is it that each time I say I will work harder, you tell me that it will take longer?” the boy asked. “The answer is clear. A pupil in such a hurry learns slowly.” Box 1 on page no. 57 One day Mulla Nasruddin went to his neighbour and asked to borrow his huge pot. The neighbor reluctantly loaned him the pot indicating a lack of trust. Next day Mulla returned the pot with a small pot saying: “Your pot was pregnant, had labour and here’s the baby. It belongs to you.” The neighbour thought this was odd but accepted the gift believing that one should not look into the mouth of a gift horse. A week went by and once again Mulla borrowed the pot and returned it the next day with a small pot as the new-born child. Next week when the Mulla asked to borrow the pot the neighbour was only too pleased to comply. Two days went by and the Mulla did not return the pot and the neighbour became worried. On the third day he went to the Mulla demanding the return of his pot. Mulla told him: “Alas, my friend, that’s impossible. Your pot passed away in labour.” The neighbour was maddened and screamed: “Look, you idiot. We all know pots do not die in labour.” “My friend,” the Mullah replied calmly, “we have already established that pots become pregnant, have labour and you even have two of the babies. I cannot help it if you were unlucky that your pot could not survive three labours in such a short time. You should have looked after it better.” Box 2 on page no. 57 An American man goes to a doctor. “Doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t seem to stop worrying, I’m anxious, I can’t sleep. I think I’m getting an ulcer…” The doctor nods. “You do look exhausted. What’s the matter?” Patient answers: “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Doctor says: “Then, tell me something about your life.” The man brightens up: “Oh, everything is great. We have the best life. We live in our own three bedroom, two-bath home in a nice neighborhood, drive two new cars, have closets full of good clothes, our three kids go to private schools, we eat out a couple of nights a week, have a condo in the mountains for skiing, we had a great vacation last year in the Bahamas and we’re planning to go to Hawaii in two months.” The doctor smiles. “My, that sounds wonderful! You have a wonderful life.” “Oh, we do, we do,” the man says. “Then what’s your problem?” The man shakes his head. “Well, I’m not exactly sure. I think it might be that our income is only $460 a week.”
Prince Hui’s cook was cutting up a goat. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every knock of the chopper, was in perfect harmony. “What skill!” the Prince exclaimed. “Sir,” replied the cook, “I’ve devoted myself to Tao. It is better than skill. When I first began to cut up goats, I saw before me whole animals. After three years of practice, I no more saw them as whole. “Now I work with my mind, not with the eye. I follow openings or cavities according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not try to cut through joints; still less through large bones. “A good cook changes his chopper once a year—because he cuts. An ordinary cook, once a month—because he hacks. But I’ve had this chopper for 19 years now. For at the joints there are always interstices, where I insert the edge of the chopper which is without thickness. By doing this the gap is enlarged, and the blade finds plenty of room.” “Bravo,” said the Prince. “From the words of this cook I have learnt how to take care of my life.”